


Mozart

by MoanDiary



Series: Moan Your Way Through Fuckruary [5]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Massage, Prompt: Massage, Season/Series 03, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vaginal Fingering, happy ending but not the actually happy kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-21 17:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: He’s a virtuoso of pleasure, and he plays her like a fine instrument.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Moan Your Way Through Fuckruary [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626784
Comments: 22
Kudos: 182





	Mozart

She texts him when she’s already in the elevator, a bad habit of hers. On days like these, when work is all she can think about, she tends to act without much forethought, running on stress and adrenaline alone. In her more honest moments, she’ll admit she’s a bit addicted to it, the tension of being stuck on a tricky case and then the victorious relief of finally cracking it. Not to mention the fact that Lieutenant Pierce has been dropping passive-aggressive comments about her fixation on this case in particular and she’s desperate to prove him wrong.

The sun has just barely set, and she’s lucky enough to catch Lucifer before he descends into the Lux for the evening, adjusting his cufflinks as he trots down the stairs from his bedroom. When he catches sight of her and her armful of case files, he rolls his eyes.

“Detective, it’s eight o’clock. _Please_ don’t tell me you’re still fretting over that tedious murdered drug dealer.”

“It just doesn’t add up!” she insists, dropping the stack of folders on his bar and starting to sort them out. “Twelve low-level corner boys murdered in three months, with no rival gangs involved?”

He sighs as he comes to a stop behind her, peering over her shoulder at the transcript of an interview with the most recent victim’s mother. “Perhaps if you take a break and give your brain some time to rest—“ His hand comes to rest on her shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, and he cuts himself off with a wordless noise of dismay. “Dearie me, your shoulders are tighter than Donald Trump’s girdle!”

She huffs a laugh that abruptly turns into a groan when he presses his thumb _hard_ into the large knot at the back of her neck, working it in a small circle around her vertebra. Her head lolls forward. “Oh my _god_ ,” she groans.

“Rude,” he grumbles. “When’s the last time you saw your masseuse?”

“Lucifer, I’m a single mom who works sixty hours a week, I don’t _have_ a masseuse.”

He shifts behind her and puts both hands on her, kneading her stiff muscles. He finds the worst knots unerringly and his strong hands are, frankly, _magical_. He mutters under his breath as he works his way from her neck out towards her shoulders, heaping imprecations on her workaholism, her lack of a dedicated masseuse, the LAPD, Trixie, Dan, his own father, and everyone in between.

She sags forward against the bar as he works further down her back, hands scrabbling for purchase against the files spread across it as he bears down on her tense muscles. She grunts at the hurts-so-good sensation of it, pressing into his hands. She barely notices the bar tipping forward and the files beginning to slide towards the edge until Lucifer exclaims “Bugger!” and lunges forward to catch it.

“I suppose this isn’t really an ideal venue for what you need,” he chuckles, pulling out his phone. “I know a very talented and remarkably strong-fingered masseuse who makes house calls. I’ll set up an appointment for you.”

She turns around to face him, breath coming a little faster than normal as she faces the prospect of what she’s about to say. “But since we’re here now,” she blurts out. “Why not just do it right?”

His thumbs freeze over his phone screen and his eyes dart up to regard her. “‘Do it right?’” he prompts. 

She waves a hand vaguely in the direction of his bedroom. “You know, lying down…with...oil or whatever. Just as one friend helping another out.”

“Right…” He stares at her skeptically. “Detective, have you ever had a real massage?”

She feels her cheeks heat. “Not...as such.”

He turns his gaze heavenward for a long moment, a martyred expression on his face. Then he sighs again helplessly and springs into motion, striding back towards his bedroom. “Right. It’s unacceptable, just unacceptable.” 

He shrugs out of his jacket, and ducks into his closet. When he emerges again, his cufflinks are off and he’s rolling up his sleeves. He shoots her an expectant look. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He gestures towards his bed. “Clothes off, under the sheets,” he says brusquely, before disappearing back into his closet.

She hears him rummaging around in drawers as she quickly strips and slides into his bed, a thrill of excitement going through her at the sensation of her skin against his unbelievably luxurious sheets. She lies on her stomach and props her head up on folded arms.

“You don’t have any nut allergies, do you, Detec—”

He walks back into the room with a stack of towels and a bottle of oil in his hands and comes to an abrupt stop when he sees her, mouth falling open a little. She feels unexpectedly powerful, to be able to bring him to a halt just by lying here and looking at him, and she suppresses a smug smile.

He gives his head a little shake and tears his eyes away from her with obvious effort, busying himself with setting the oil down on the nightstand and then rolling one of the towels into a tidy U-shape. He sits on the edge of the bed beside her.

“Lift your head, please.” 

“You know what you’re doing, right?” she teases, propping herself up on her forearms.

“Detective, please. Did Mozart know how to play the harpsichord?” She gives him a blank look. “Yes. Yes, he did,” he says testily, removing her pillow and arranging the rolled towel on the mattress before her. “Face in there.”

She settles with her face in the comfortable cradle of the towel and rests her arms by her side. 

“May—” Lucifer clears his throat. “May I take your hair down, Detective?”

“Sure,” she says with false ease, more confident now that she doesn’t need to worry about what’s happening on her face.

His nimble fingers make quick work of her hair tie, and then the pressure of her tight ponytail on her scalp eases. His fingers comb through her hair, brushing it to the side, and she hums a little at the gentle tugging sensation. At the sound of pleasure, his hands immediately return to her scalp like bloodhounds catching a scent, first brushing across it gently, then kneading more firmly as she continues to make pleased noises. His massaging trails off into gentle scratching, and she practically purrs, already feeling muscles all over her body unclench and relax into the soft satin of his bed.

“All right. Ready to get started?” 

“We haven’t started yet?” she mumbles into the bedding. He chortles and carefully folds back the sheet to just above the curve of her butt.

She hears the pop of the bottle opening, then the sound of oil being squirted into his palms, then the wet noise of him warming it between them, then his hands are on her back and _oh_ , it feels good.

His brief shoulder massage was _nothing_ compared to what he can do with proper lubrication on bare skin. He starts with long, slow, light strokes up and down her back and shoulders and arms that make her whole body tingle with sensation, spreading the oil evenly, then gradually increases the pressure until Chloe can feel the press and release of each individual finger moving along her muscles. His large, clever hands seem made for this. He’s a virtuoso of pleasure, and he plays her like a fine instrument.

Once her whole back is warm and slick and alive, he sets to work on individual muscle groups, digging in with precise pressure exactly where she needs it most, working his thumbs in tight circles followed by long, firm strokes. A litany of groans and whimpers escapes her at the sweet pain of knots loosening and relaxing, of blood flowing beneath her skin, at the occasional pop of pressure releasing from stiff joints. Once her tight shoulders have fully relaxed, he works his way down to her lower back, to tension she didn’t realize was there. She whimpers and pants as his thumbs dig into her sore lumbar, and she can feel the strain of hours in her desk chair or sitting uncomfortably in her car on long stakeouts draining away.

He follows the lines of tension downwards but stops abruptly when he meets the edge of the sheet. His hands freeze, then pull away from her and she whines in disappointment.

“It...it might be prudent to stop there,” he says, voice sounding a little strained, breath coming a little harder than normal.

“Are you done?” she asks peevishly, feeling brave without the need to look him in the eye.

“Done?”

“Are there still muscles that need massaging?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Then you’re not done.”

He swallows audibly. “I suppose not.”

He hesitates for a long moment before tugging the sheet down further, baring her ass, then slowly, _slowly_ , sliding it down her legs.

He lets out a shuddering breath, and she feels a rush of heat between her legs at the thought of being bare before him. Exposed.

There’s the sound of him getting more oil, and then his hands return to her, kneading and digging into the firm muscles of her ass. She thinks they might linger longer than is strictly necessary for the massage, but it’s hard to begrudge him that given how good it feels. His thumbs dig into the crease where her ass meets her thigh, so close to her increasingly enthusiastic pussy that she is sorely tempted to shift her hips and just put his hands right where she wants them the most. 

She resists the impulse, though. He’s made it very clear what the boundaries of their relationship are. He may want her body, but he doesn’t want _her_. And there’s a bitter, spiteful part of her that wants to punish him for that.

Before she does anything rash, his hands move away from her ass and down the backs of her thighs. She can’t help but notice that the deliberate, forceful focus of his work on the knots in her neck has mellowed somewhat. He’s massaging, still, but it’s more of a sensual caress now. He traces the long lines of her thighs, runs his knuckles along the sensitive backs of her knees, kneads the firm muscles of her calves with both hands. And her feet he lavishes with special attention, digging into her arches and teasing out tension all the way to the tips of her toes as she moans appreciatively.

All the while she imagines those large, warm, worshipful hands cupping her breasts, sliding down her abdomen. Thinks about his strong, dextrous fingers pressing inside her. As relaxed as she is, it’d be the easiest thing in the world for him to lift her hips and slide into her very ready entrance. She thinks about him fucking her.

He seems loath to put down her left foot after he’s done, cradling it in both hands, thumbs swiping gently at her heel, but he finally lowers it back to the bed. Then he slides the sheet back up to her shoulders. She feels heavy and boneless, approximately as capable of moving as a wet noodle.

“Izzat it?” she slurs.

“I think it’s enough for tonight.”

She hums in mild disappointment, trying to muster the will to move. When she finally shifts in preparation to get up, she’s so wet that it makes a very audible noise in the still of the penthouse. She freezes. She hears Lucifer swallow again and exhale deliberately.

“But now that I think of it, Detective,” he begins, voice a little rough and strangled, “There’s no better way to top off a massage than with a happy ending.”

“Is that so?” she chokes out, brain immediately filling with images.

“It’s—ah—only polite.”

 _It’s transactional for him,_ she thinks. _He’d do this for anyone he gave a massage to. It’s not a big deal._ It’s frankly embarrassing how little she needs to work to convince herself.

She grips the sheet and tugs it aside, baring her ass again. 

His hands return to her eagerly, as if she’s given him permission to do what he really wanted to do in the first place, kneading her ass firmly. She doesn’t bother to restrain her moans as his fingers dip between her legs. He strokes her expertly, fingers not just targeting her clit and her labia, but also the taut flesh and muscle around them, massaging her inner thighs and reaching beneath her to caress into her mons. But he keeps at least a finger on her clit at all times, stroking it relentlessly, driving her up the hill in record time. Just as she’s about to come, he slips two fingers inside her and presses them against her G-spot, just as he slides the other hand under her and presses into her abdomen directly above her pubic bone. 

A long cry tears itself out of her, and her back arches. She comes for what seems like forever as he expertly manipulates her body, hips canting forward into the bed and his hands again and again. He massages her through it on all fronts, stilling only when the stimulation becomes too much.

Finally he withdraws his hands, clearing his throat as he snags another towel and swipes it down her oily back before cleaning gently between her thighs. Through it all, she lies limply on the bed, not sure if she actually has a body anymore, or whether she’s just a vaguely human-shaped puddle.

The mattress shifts as he stands. “I’ll, um, go and...I’ll go,” he mutters. His footsteps fade as he quickly exits the room. Eventually she manages to heave herself to her feet, limbs like rubber. She wishes she could just stay in his outrageously comfortable bed. Ask him to join her. Maybe see what else he’s capable of doing with his talented fingers.

But however delicious the pleasure is, he’s made it fairly clear that he’s not willing to cross the line into a real relationship, and she’s in far too deep to be happy with something that doesn’t go beyond the physical. She doesn’t think she could take another Candy Morningstar. She pulls her clothes on clumsily, feeling utterly relaxed but increasingly disconsolate as she comes down from the high of her orgasm, of his hands on her body.

She steps slowly towards the stairs leading out of his bedroom and catches sight of him, standing at the bar again, expression indecipherable in the dim light, taking a long pull from a very full tumbler of whiskey. She casts about for something to say.

“What are you doing for the rest of the night?” she asks with feigned nonchalance, buttoning the last button on her blouse.

He finishes downing his glass and sets it on the bar very deliberately. When he turns to look at her, she almost swears she can see fire in his eyes. “To be quite honest, Detective, I’m planning to drink some more, and then wank myself into oblivion.”

Her cheeks flare with heat at the mental image that produces, and doesn’t know quite what to say in response. She walks back over to the bar and busies herself with gathering up all her case files. She can feel his heated gaze on her, burning into the top of her head.

“I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says eventually, lifting her gaze to his. She can’t meet his eyes for long; the expression in them—painfully raw and roiling with emotion—is too daunting. The way a muscle is working rhythmically in his jaw, like he’s barely holding himself back, is more than she thinks she could handle right now. But, oh, how she wishes she were stupid enough—brave enough—to take that leap.

“Be sure to drink plenty of water,” he says softly as she walks toward the elevator. “And don’t stay up late working on that bloody case. It’ll still be there in the morning.”

She gives him a tight smile as she turns around, watching him as the elevator doors slide shut. Silhouetted in the orange light behind his bar, she can’t make out anything but his stiff, still posture. “Goodnight, Lucifer.”

“Goodnight, Detective.”


End file.
